


that night of now done darkness

by Lord Vitya (ProtoDan)



Category: DCU (Comics), Detective Comics (Comics)
Genre: Character Study, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Batman & Robin: Eternal, Religion, Slow Burn, graphic depictions of victorian catholic poetry, vaguely exaggerated depictions of coming out of a cult
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-20
Packaged: 2019-11-26 02:05:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18174404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoDan/pseuds/Lord%20Vitya
Summary: This journey, fraught as it may be, is merely his penance. If he makes it through the night, through the snow and the freezing wind to the safety of humankind, then he will use that second chance to its fullest. He will remake himself, and he will become new.





	that night of now done darkness

Finding his way out of the Arctic feels, at first, an insurmountable feat. Azrael can't help but think of it as both irony and, perhaps, a form of cosmic retribution: that he would find his life here, only to lose it again in a scant few hours. He gathers his cloak about himself, praying that the flames of his gauntlet blades will last long enough for him to at least find some shelter before nightfall. The frozen wind bites at the exposed side of his face, stinging his skin and eye. Snow crunches under his boots as he drags his feet through it, sinking down to his knees with every step.

Azrael tracks the sun as it makes its inexorable way across the sky, as the cold sinks deep into his bones. The Suit of Sorrows is not built for cold weather survival; while it will give him some small buffer against the cold, the heat of his blades will eventually run out with their power supply, and he needs shelter sooner rather than later.

Of course, even if he finds shelter—and then, if he survives the night—there's the small matter of not succumbing to starvation. The nearest fragment of civilization, if his navigational systems weren't rendered completely useless even before the crash, is nearly fifty miles away. At the rate he's trudging through the snow, he'll be lucky if he reaches a township within the next three or four days. Accounting for any kind of rest he can find, that could increase that estimate by another twelve hours if he's not careful.

The wind screams. Azrael shivers before he can smother the reflex, before he can gird himself up against the despair creeping up from the core of him. If he dies, here, out in the cold, what becomes of him? Is taking back his own life in taking down Mother atonement enough, or will he find his end here for good, alone and forgotten and fallen—or—

No. This journey, fraught as it may be, is merely his penance. If he makes it through the night, through the snow and the freezing wind to the safety of humankind, then he will use that second chance to its fullest. He will remake himself, and he will become new.

As snowflakes begin to stick to the lashes of Azrael's exposed eye, he blinks them away, squinting against the wind. A dark shape rises up over the horizon; Azrael, brazenly, dares to hope. Hope that maybe, up ahead is respite, is shelter. Somewhere to lay his head until the wind fades, even for a moment.

For the time being, even the potential for promise of rest is enough to push him forward, step by step by dragging step. Snow creeps into the seams of Azrael's armor, melting against the heat of his skin. The cold bites at his feet, at the flesh of his calves, its icicle teeth sinking deeper and deeper with every movement, biting harder and harder until the feeling in his flesh begins to die in lancets of phantom pain. At its heels, hopelessness, the swelling sickness deep in his gut, the voice in his ear that says: _This is the end._

Azrael has neither the breath nor the strength to spare to speak. And still, as he pushes himself onward, as the tears tracking down his cheek freeze on his skin, he prays.

He prays, and he walks. And he walks. And he walks. He walks, until he can no longer feel his feet at all, until the pain has succumbed to numbness, until—until the wind is no longer howling at his ears, and the snow gives way to solid stone.

The armor about his knees _cracks_ thunderously on the rock beneath as Azrael falls, shaking with both the cold and with the relief flooding through him in equal measure. He can still hear the wind beyond the walls of this little cave, but it no longer stings at his skin nor pulls at his cloak, and for that—for that he is grateful. Azrael pulls himself deeper inside, until the wind outside is just a whisper. Then, and only then, does he allow himself to push himself against the cavern wall, to close his eyes, and let the blades at his gauntlets fizzle out. Better to conserve power here, in this little shelter, than to burn them into the night.

As Azrael catches his breath, he uses it to sing. Quiet at first, uncertain of his own tremulous voice, of the worth of his song. After all, he is... he is nothing, he is only a man—no, a fragment of a man, molded and cast and cast aside by the same uncaring hands. For a moment, Azrael falls still, his breath coming hesitant and shaking, both eyes stinging now. He screws his eyes shut, but makes no move to still the tears as they come.

Azrael sings. It is all he has; it must be enough. Azrael's voice echoes off the cavern walls, each refrain twisting together into a nearly ethereal chorus. It's a paltry thing, in comparison to the high architecture of the Order's chapels, the overwhelming blanket of sound their hymns became—but this, this is his and his alone. His song, his refuge, his life.

He sings until he can't, until the hymn cracks and shatters in his throat, until he's left with only himself, his thoughts, and the dark. When his voice finally breaks for good, he leans his head back against the rock wall, and wills himself to succumb to the sweet embrace of sleep. Unconsciousness comes like the tide, in small, steady waves against the walls of his mind. Azrael breathes deep of the cold, stale air, and lets himself slip away.

He doesn't so much as have the chance to dream. First a whisper, and then a deep hum cuts through the silence, pulling and then jerking Azrael back into consciousness. Behind that alien sound, human voices—low, at once familiar and not. Azrael slowly blinks his eyes open, before lifting an arm to shield them from the fiery light that suddenly casts the whole cavern in sharp relief. Silhouetted against the light are two figures, whose features he can't quite make out.

And he won't. He's on his feet in an instant, the blades at his gauntlets hissing and crackling to life as he makes ready—

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, relax," says one shadow, putting up both hands. "Chill out a second. Been through _that_ song and dance before, really not looking for an encore. Jean-Paul—could you maybe put those down?"

Azrael narrows his eyes, squinting against the light until the shadow coalesces into a face, high cheekbones and a half-nervous smile. The blades at his gauntlets fizzle out, and he says, hesitatingly: "...Grayson?"

Grayson lowers his hands with a sigh of relief. "Hey," he says. "Came to pick you up. You didn't think I'd just leave you out here in the snow, did you?"

(The thought that anyone would come for him hadn't even occurred to him.) "Of... course not," Azrael tries, but even in jest, the lie tastes too bitter. He glances towards Grayson's accompaniment, who seems to be regarding him with an almost predatory curiosity under his cowl. It makes apprehension prickle under Azrael's skin. "Who is this?"

"Oh, this is Midnighter," Grayson says, leaning sideways and folding an arm around the man's shoulders with a grin. "He drove me here."

The other man—Midnighter—glances at Grayson sidelong before brushing his hand off. "Wasn't about to let you go through all that shit just to get stabbed. Not that I care about you or anything," he says. He turns his gaze back to Azrael, but the set of his mouth has softened slightly, pulling at a lopsided smirk. "Hell of a look, I'll give you that," he says appreciatively. "Come on, I'm freezing my goddamn ass off."

"Where are you taking me?" Azrael asks, unmoving.

"Somewhere warmer," Midnighter grunts, turning towards the light.

"Gotham, if you're up to it," Grayson says. "Thought you might want some kind of a fresh start, you know?"

Gotham. Azrael turns the notion over in his head, peering at it from as many angles as he can manage before he simply nods. "It must be better than here," he says.

"If only barely," Midnighter says dryly. He steps to the side, gesturing towards the light with a sardonic bow at the waist. "Step right on through. Don't get on my ass if the Door makes you queasy."

Azrael looks to Grayson, who puts up both thumbs with another grin.

"I'll go through first," Grayson says, reaching out and giving Azrael a pat on the shoulder he can barely feel through his armor. "It's not so bad once you get used to it."

Two steps, and Grayson is gone, vanished into the light. Azrael stares it down for a moment, uncertainty clawing its way back into his heart. What lies beyond that light? A new start, a new life, as Grayson says? Or is he only allowing himself once more to be pulled along a predetermined path, the same marionette on the strings of a different puppeteer?

"It's not going to hurt, Azzie," Midnighter says, startling Azrael with the quiet sincerity in his voice. He puts a hand to Azrael's shoulder. "C'mon. I can actually feel my ass freezing off the longer we stand here."

Azrael takes in a long breath, steeling himself. It can't be any worse than the purification he had undergone to take on the mantle of Azrael in the first place, can it? He bows his head, and steps through.

Every particle, every atom of him is unmade and remade instantaneously. For a single, lurching millisecond, physics loses all meaning, all cohesion, until he's on his hands and knees in the middle of a carpeted floor, stomach twisted in at least six kinds of knot, his whole body shaking. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Grayson kneeling beside him, a gloved hand extended towards him. Looking to the side for too long makes Azrael's vision swim, so he squeezes his eyes shut instead.

"Yeah, the first time's always rough," says Midnighter from behind, his boots whispering against the rug. Azrael feels a hand at his arm, tugging him to his feet, hears that alien hiss of—he assumes—the Door closing. "Up you get. Put a couple shots in you and you'll be right as rain."

"I am about ninety-nine percent sure that that's not even close to how it works," Grayson says, stepping forward to put Azrael's arm over his own shoulder to balance him. "Ginger ale, maybe. I'll ask Alfie if we have any lying around."

Midnighter scoffs. "Ginger ale, sure. If you're a baby," he says. "You got this, Dick?"

"I've got this," Grayson confirms. "You go do... whatever it is you were doing before I called."

"You don't want to know," Midnighter says. And then, apparently to no one in particular: "Door." The hand on his arm vanishes, and when Azrael dares open his eyes again, he only sees black coattails disappearing into that fiery light.

Grayson guides Azrael out of the room, down a hallway that feels far, far too long at this particular moment in time. And then, at its end, there is a pristine kitchen, all cold steel fixtures and white marble. By the sink stands a slender old man, quietly drying a glass. Azrael slumps into the first chair offered him, watching the old man in silence.

"I was not aware that we would be having company," the old man says, his voice as dry as the glass in his hand. "Dinner won't be ready for another half an hour, you know."

"Sorry," Grayson says, ducking his head. "Would've let you know, but—uh, there's been a lot of crap going on recently. Figured 'surprise house guest' ranked pretty low on the priority list."

"As it generally does," the old man replies with a knowing smile. "I trust you'll be able to entertain your own guests, Master Richard?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," Grayson says. When Azrael looks at him, Grayson's face is—friendly, but solemn. There's a sadness there that Azrael doesn't understand. "Matter of fact, it might be better if we have a quick talk one-on-one. Sorry to kick you out of the kitchen like this, Alfred."

"I'm sure I shall perish," says the old man, but bows, stepping out with quiet dignity.

Grayson shows no such decorum as he drops into the nearest chair, leaning back until it's a minor miracle he hasn't tipped over, and pushes his fingers through his hair. "So. First thing's first," he says, tipping forward again. "Kinda feel like we got off on the wrong foot before. What with me breaking your sword, and you trying to stab me with it."

Azrael looks away, chastised. "Forgive me," he says quietly. The words are raw in his throat, sharp with disuse. Forgiveness, in his experience, is rarely freely given. To ask for it outright is presumptuous at best. The image of Grayson coming towards him, preparing for flagellation, flashes through Azrael's mind before he has the chance to tamp it down.

"Hey, no hard feelings," says Grayson. His voice is... gentle, as if he has some inkling of the turmoil churning in Azrael's spirit now. "I'm just saying, I think an actual introduction is a little overdue. So—hi, nice to meet you, I'm Dick Grayson." He sticks out his hand with a wide, amicable grin.

Azrael regards Grayson's—Dick's—hand for a moment, before reaching out to fold his own in Dick's grip. Dick's handshake is strong, but not overbearing. "My name is Azr—" No, no, this is—he's going about this wrong. If this is to be his second chance, his new life, he has to do it properly. He grimaces, breaking the handshake and reaching up to pry the mask from his face. It wasn't doing him any good anymore, anyway.

Placing it on the table in front of him, he reaches for Dick's hand again. "My name is Jean-Paul Valley," he says.

Dick's grin is so wide it practically splits his face. "Good to meet you, Jean-Paul. Good to meet you."

  

* * *

 

Jean-Paul spends the next several days under the Wayne roof—to help him find his feet, as Dick so graciously put it. He's perfectly aware that a key part of this arrangement is so that the Bat family can keep an eye on him, and he... understands. He has only in the past week pulled himself from a dangerous cult, for whom he was their enforcer, their murderer on a leash.

He would keep a close eye on himself, too.

Still, being in the same house with no sign of being allowed to come out from under their watchful eyes is more stifling than he would like, as much as he understands the reasoning behind it. Jean-Paul finds himself spending most of his waking hours in the manor's library, poring over texts old and new—encyclopediae, fantasy, and everything in between. Every so often, he catches the door opening, and each time he tenses before he can think better of it. One day, perhaps, this knowledge will no longer feel like a trespass, and he will stop looking over his shoulder every few pages.

Especially given the fact that each time, it's only ever the butler, Alfred, carrying a tray of tea and light sandwiches and a smile so gentle and friendly it's nearly painful. Sometimes, he leaves the tray on a nearby end table and simply wishes Jean-Paul a good afternoon. And sometimes—sometimes he stays. He'll ask about whatever Jean-Paul has picked up to read, and give quiet commentary, or else further recommendations.

Alfred guides him towards philosophy and theology, always with that same gentle smile, and then, one day, to poetry.

"I must admit," he says, drawing a thin book from up on a high shelf, "as much as Master Richard has regaled this household of your fateful encounter in the Arctic, I still know regretfully little of you and your origins."

Jean-Paul glances away, fixing his gaze on the lion's face carved into the end table. "That would make two of us," he says, his voice thin in his own ears.

Alfred gives a soft, sympathetic sound, before holding out the book. "If you don't mind my asking, were there many artists in your Order? Painters, poets, and the like?"

Jean-Paul shakes his head. His fingertips brush the thin paper cover, before Alfred presses it into his hands. "None that I ever knew of," he says. "But Azrael is not— _was_ not a philosopher, or a poet, or an artist. This sort of thing—" here he holds up the book—"would have only been a distraction from my calling from God." Even now, simply holding it burns like rebellion in his chest.

Alfred extends his hand again—this time, to rest it on Jean-Paul's shoulder, his grip strong despite his age. "Read that one, lad. I think it will do you a great deal of good," he says. He squeezes Jean-Paul's arm gently before drawing back. "Though, if I might give you one further recommendation: Take it outside with you, out in the gardens. I find fewer things can be more replenishing than good tea, a good book, and a bit of sunshine. Don't worry," he adds, eyes crinkling, "I shan't tell anyone you took anything out of the library."

Jean-Paul blinks, looking over his shoulder and out the window. "But I thought..."

"Thought what?" asks Alfred, as gentle as ever.

Something in Jean-Paul's chest tightens until the space behind his ribs physically aches. He closes his eyes. "I thought I wasn't—" ~~permitted~~ —"supposed to leave the house," he says.

Though he cannot bring himself to open his eyes again, let alone meet Alfred's, he can still hear the sympathy writ plain in his voice. "Lad, if you were under some sort of house arrest, I can assure you, someone would have let you know from the moment you stepped inside." Alfred's hand comes to rest on Jean-Paul's wrist, and it's only then that he realizes he's been pressing the book to his chest. Reluctantly, he loosens his grip on it. "You are free to go out into the world whenever you feel you are ready. I only wish for you to know you are welcome here whenever you need."

Jean-Paul looks down at Alfred's hand, still resting on his wrist, and then up towards his face, still wearing that warm smile. And Jean-Paul—Jean-Paul believes him, believes that someone would dare, would bother to take in a killer and a fanatic, allow him under their roof, only to simply _let_ him leave when he pleased. He feels the corner of his mouth pull up, and he nods. "Thank you," he says softly.

Eyes crinkling, Alfred draws his hand back. "You can thank me once you've finished that book. Go on, enjoy the lovely weather before it turns sour. And don't forget," he adds, nodding towards the end table, "there's plenty of tea still left."

In the end, the entire tray comes with Jean-Paul into the garden, where he stays curled up against the base of a weeping willow, in a carpet of autumn-resplendent leaves. He whiles away the afternoon hours reading, murmuring the words aloud to himself until he can lose himself in the cadence—over and over and over, until his eyes blur, until the rhythm is burned into his bones, until insubordination melts away into liberation.

 

_Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;_  
_Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man_  
_In me ór, most weary, cry "I can no more." I can;_  
_Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be._  
_But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me_  
_Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan_  
_With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,  
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?_

 

Dusk comes, and Jean-Paul almost doesn't notice. No one has come outside to find him, to draw him back inside, to chastise him. Something stirs in his chest, a vast emotion for which he has no name—and a realization that there is nothing whatsoever tethering him to this place but the charity of those who live here. Jean-Paul looks up to the horizon, afire in the twilight, and he draws in the crisp and cooling air.

There is a world, wild and wide, beyond the walls of this house, beyond the trees. Jean-Paul has only ever caught a glimpse of it, only known what he has been permitted to see. If he is to make a new life for himself, then, should he not go forth and know it better? There is only so much to be found in books, in the words of a few kind people. To truly make himself anew, he needs to live the life granted to him.

Jean-Paul bows his head, eyes closed, and stands in silence until the sun has crept all the way down below the trees. He gathers the book under his arms, takes the tray from the little nest of leaves, and makes his way back inside. The kitchen is empty when he comes to leave the tray, but he takes care to wash each piece and dry them in turn; it seems the right thing to do.

When he's done, Jean-Paul returns to the library, careful to keep his tread light lest he disturb the almost holy quiet within. Here, he finds Alfred, dusting the spines of each book with painstaking patience and care. Still, he is not so wrapped up in his work—nor, apparently, was Jean-Paul quite quiet enough—that he doesn't catch a glance towards Jean-Paul standing behind the reading chair.

"I'd feared you might have left without saying goodbye, Mister Valley," Alfred says, not unkindly. Still, Jean-Paul cannot avoid the faint pang in his chest at his words. "I'm glad to see I was wrong."

"No," says Jean-Paul, and then abruptly has no idea what more he should say. He wants to leave, that much is certain. Tonight, if possible. But how is he possibly meant to say so to Alfred's face?

Alfred, evidently, sees through his hesitation. "You may recall that I told you that you are free to leave whenever you wish," he says.

"I could not do so without returning what isn't mine," Jean-Paul says, bowing his head as he holds out the book. "Thank you, by the way. It was—enlightening."

Alfred takes a few hushed steps forward and rests his palm flat across the cover, pushing the book down. "Keep that one," he says. "One never knows when one might need a bit of enlightenment."

Jean-Paul draws the book to his chest, unsure if he wants to smile or to weep. In the end, his decision turns out to be both; Alfred's patient smile sees to that. He says nothing while Jean-Paul wipes at his eyes with his shirtsleeves, nor does he put up so much as a token resistance when Jean-Paul closes the distance between them and folds his arms around Alfred's torso.

"Thank you," he says again.

Alfred's hand comes to rest between Jean-Paul's shoulder blades, patting him gently. "You are quite welcome," he says. Jean-Paul lets him go, and Alfred takes only a half-step back. "If you don't mind my curiosity, where do you plan to go from here?"

Jean-Paul wavers a moment. "I'm not sure," he admits. "The world has been closed off from me for so long—I would like to see more of it. Where to start, I don't know yet, but..." He offers a small smile. "I have faith I'll eventually find myself where I need to be, in the end."

Alfred's smile warms even more, somehow. "That you will, Mister Valley. That you will."

Glancing down towards his feet, Jean-Paul smiles. "Thank you for everything," he says. "All of you. There is a—it would take a special kind of grace to let me stay here so long, after what I've done." _What I've done and nearly done to members of your own family,_ he adds silently. "I'm going back up to my room to get my things—what I have," he adds, wincing slightly as he looks back up. "I'll be gone after that."

"You'd best promise to visit at least once," Alfred says dryly.

For once, the smile that pulls at Jean-Paul's mouth takes almost no effort at all. "I will," he says. "But—could you promise me something, too?"

Alfred cocks his head just slightly to the side, eyebrows raised, his own features smoothing into simple, cool curiosity. He doesn't immediately say yes, which makes a certain measure of sense; he has no way of knowing what Jean-Paul is about to say.

And Jean-Paul can't quite keep his smile from widening before he says it. "Call me Jean-Paul," he says. "Please."

There's the smile again. "I suppose I can manage that much," Alfred replies. "Best of luck to you, Jean-Paul."

  

* * *

 

The Suit of Sorrows is just where Jean-Paul left it: utterly undisturbed but for the repairs he’s made out of habit, folded up into a duffel bag and shoved under the guest bed like a monster better left ignored. When he unzips the duffel, the cold crimson mask of Azrael stares up at him, eye holes black and empty, challenging him. Jean-Paul stares back, doubt creeping into his bones. Would it be better to leave it here, for Dick and his family to do with as they wish—be it encase it in glass and lock it away, or burn it to ash, or pull it apart and study its construction—or...

Should he take the Suit with him, its weight a constant reminder of who he was before? Is it at all possible for such an object to be anything but? Can it be anything but a tool for killing, built only to be borne by a weapon given human form? Is it possible to repurpose it, to make it something greater?

If it was possible for Jean-Paul to come into the light, could Azrael do the same?

Jean-Paul closes his eyes, slipping the book into the duffel and zipping it closed once more. He pulls the straps over his shoulders, takes one last glance at his room, before taking a deep breath and walking out the door.

 

* * *

 

In the end, he stays in Gotham. The city has a certain pull to it that he cannot explain, except to say that he is simply meant to be here. There is suffering here, suffering he can help to assuage. He lives—actually _lives,_ a real man moving and breathing surrounded by other real people, not shut away in a chapel, untouchable, unseen—on the streets, with those who hurt the most. He helps, where he can; he fights for those who cannot, helping others to keep what few possessions they have. At first, he tries to do this solely as Jean-Paul Valley. After all, Gotham has no shortage of men in masks trying to help the helpless.

And then the guns come out, at which point—regardless of his feelings on the matter—it seems safer all around to have a bulletproof vest, of sorts.

For a few days, this decision works in his favor. If he comes between a woman and child, and an armed man seeking to take what little they have left, the latter will see him standing ablaze with holy fire... and he will flee. Conflict and crisis averted simultaneously, Jean-Paul—Azrael can attend to the people he seeks to protect, can try and meet their needs as best he can. (It's the least he can do.)

Those who would bring harm are afraid of him. Jean-Paul hears whispers from dark alleys, walking the streets during the day, quiet rumors about a figure that can't be any of the Robins or ex-Robins, the descriptions too vivid, too clear to be the Batman himself. They talk of fire—and of brimstone, an exaggeration that makes Jean-Paul's stomach twist—and a voice like the Devil himself.

It's far from ideal, but it... it works in his favor.

Soon, however, the civilians he means to help are afraid of him too. The people he's protected talk about him in hushed tones, about a nightmare sheathed in fire and blood. An angel of death, who brings only fear no matter how many times he says _do not be afraid._

And, maybe, that makes Jean-Paul more than a little sick to think about. He hides the Suit of Sorrows then, keeps it tucked away in the now mud-stained duffel with that little book of poetry—his only possessions, and one is a weapon of fear and of death.

Perhaps, then, Azrael cannot be redeemed after all.

By the end of the month, he moves on. He finds another area, another neighborhood to inhabit, a stranger to all no matter the mask he chooses to wear. Much of his waking hours, he spends in the nearest library—it stands in the middle of the neighborhood, crumbling and underfunded, but still standing.

He watches students and children come in and out of their doors, and—and they talk to him here, in the quiet confines where only the books can hear. At first, some of them seem to think he's one of the staff (not that he blames them; he's always somewhere within these walls during the day, and the one set of clothes he took with him from the manor is warm, yes, but incredibly bookish in aesthetic), but the ease with which they ask him questions doesn't change when he corrects them. They ask for his help, and Jean-Paul gives it freely. And, as the days pass and turn into weeks, he makes— _friends_.

The daylight, Jean-Paul has little issue with. The library offers shelter from the elements, a small water fountain to slake his thirst, and a tiny cluster of friends who keep him from growing lonely. When they can, they share food with him, no matter how many times he tells them not to.

But eventually, the building must close, and Jean-Paul must find somewhere else to go. He treads over the cracked streets under flickering, dying lights, duffel slung over his shoulder, and he simply walks where his feet will take him. Directionless. Purposeless, except—nothing is ever truly without purpose.

Eventually, his path comes to an end at a short set of stone stairs. When he looks up, he is met with a set of weathered oak doors. Beyond them, there's a muted sound, a swell of—of—music? Familiar, like the faintly whispered memory of a dream, and he finds himself walking up the stone steps, lifting a hand towards those old oak doors. He pushes against the wood, and the door slowly, softly creaks open. Beyond the threshold stands a dimly lit chapel, illuminated only by the weak glow of a few candles. Jean-Paul casts his gaze around the chapel, from the faint glimmer of candlelight reflected in the stained glass windows, the sculpted columns rising ever upwards towards the painted angels high above.

The music is louder here, if only barely, washing over Jean-Paul in steady waves. A piano's mellow tones, the soft baritone of a human voice drift and echo in the empty air, sending at once peace and terrible longing to coil and constrict in Jean-Paul's chest. He moves behind one of the columns, leaning against the cool stone and closing his eyes.

It is impossible to say how long Jean-Paul listens, the words and the melodies absorbing into his very spirit.

_...here in this place, new light is streaming_  
_Now is the darkness vanished away,_  
_See, in this space, our fears and our dreamings,_  
_Brought here to you in the light of this day._  
_Gather us in, the lost and forsaken_  
_Gather us in, the blind and the lame;_  
_Call to us now, and we shall awaken  
We shall arise at the sound of our name..._

An eternity passes before the music fades, replaced instead by faint footfalls. "How long have you been there, son?"

Jean-Paul starts, eyes open wide. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Don't be, don't be," says the man. He looks at Jean-Paul with friendly eyes, crinkled in a smile. "I feel a bit bad myself, not noticing you for so long."

"I haven't been here long," Jean-Paul says, unaccountably sheepish. "I hope I'm not intruding."

The man shakes his head, his smile widening. "If I'd known you were here, I'd have asked you to join me. It's always nice to have someone to give a good harmony. Oh, but where are my manners?" He holds out a hand, his fingers wrinkled and calloused. "Father Peter Myriel. Pleased to meet you."

Jean-Paul stares for what feels like too long before he reaches out in kind and takes Father Myriel's hand. "Jean-Paul Valley," he says.

Myriel's grip is surprisingly strong as he shakes Jean-Paul's hand, his grin lighting up the dim chapel better than the candles could. "There we go. Now we're friends, and you can't be intruding on anything at the moment, since I would quite like a friend to keep me company while I offend the Lord with how poorly I keep a tune these days."

Feeling slightly guilty for doing so, Jean-Paul chuckles. "It sounded fine to me," he says. Not that he's any kind of authority; Azrael is not a musician, either. The Order had their services and their hymns, but he has no memory ever participating in either one. "I don't think you would be offending anyone."

"Very kind of you to say, Jean-Paul," says Father Myriel. "Now, before you inflate my ego too much, I have to ask: do you have time for a drink? I always like to end my evening with something warm, and I'd certainly appreciate a friend to share it with."

It isn't as though he has anywhere to be. Or to go, in the end. Jean-Paul reaches down for his duffel (when had he put it down?) and smiles. "Lead the way."

Father Myriel reaches out as if to relieve Jean-Paul of the weight, but Jean-Paul won't—can't—let him. This is his burden. Seeming to understand without a word between them, Myriel steps out into the open area of the chapel, past the pews, away from the altar, and guides Jean-Paul to a room in the back. In the darkness, he can just make out the shape of the furniture and a few trinkets scattered here and there, until Myriel turns on a lamp and bathes the whole chamber in soft amber light.

"Don't like to run up the electrical bill," Myriel explains, "so if it's just me, I'll light a few candles, make do with a desk lamp. Makes the whole place seem a little more cozy, in my opinion."

There is certainly a comfort to be found in the low light. Jean-Paul makes a quiet sound of agreement, at a loss for any other way to respond, while Father Myriel draws out a chair. Hesitantly, Jean-Paul sits as he is—not commanded, but gently beckoned, which is still strange in its own right.

"Do you like coffee at all, Jean-Paul? I probably shouldn't have it so late, of course, but... eh. We all have our vices," Father Myriel says, going so far as to punctuate the statement with a wink.

"I... I don't know," Jean-Paul admits. The Order did not provide such things, and during his stay in the manor, he only ever had the tea that Alfred provided. There's a sense that itches at the back of his brain, that there was something before—before Mother, before the Order, before Azrael, but when he reaches for it, the memories slip from his grasp.

Perhaps there was never anything else. Perhaps he was only ever Azrael, and perhaps that's all that there ever will be.

"I think I'd like to try it, though," he adds, before the silence can grow stale.

Myriel's friendly eyes crinkle again. "I was hoping you'd say that." He turns to an unfamiliar metal contraption (he thinks there might have been one in the manor, but he had been to embarrassed of his ignorance to ask what it was or its purpose) sitting on one of the tables. Pulling it apart, he rests what appears to be a small steel scoop of some sort down in front of himself.

From an overhead cupboard, Myriel produces a small bag, out of which he spoons some ground coffee into the metal scoop before slotting the latter back into the machine. Jean-Paul finds himself disproportionally fascinated as he watches Myriel prepare, as if he is being allowed to witness some secret ritual hitherto hidden from him. The machine hisses as Myriel goes to fetch a gallon of milk, dark coffee spitting from its spout, which smells tantalizing already.

"Tell me about yourself, Jean-Paul," Father Myriel says, pouring the coffee into two stout mugs. "Are you from around here?"

Jean-Paul shakes his head before thinking better of it. He's fairly sure, at least, that this is not where he came from, but he has no real way of knowing that, does he? "I'm from..." The Arctic Circle, Santa Prisca, Gnosis... there's no satisfactory answer to be found in what memories he can sift through. "Far from here," he finishes.

Not that Father Myriel seems particularly bothered. "Suppose I should have guessed," he says, smiling. "With a name like that and all." He pours the now-steaming milk into the mugs, rich brown and pale white swirling together and marbling as the liquids mix. "If you don't mind my asking, what brings you to Gotham? Do you have family here?"

"No, I..." Jean-Paul falters. "I don't think so, anyway. I came to find—something. I'm not sure what," he admits.

"Is anyone?" Father Myriel asks, his eyes crinkling. "Sugar's in this little cup here, help yourself."

Jean-Paul accepts the cup that Father Myriel pushes towards him, cradling it in both hands. He can feel the heat of it through the ceramic, radiating into his palms and, he can almost imagine, his spirit. Father Myriel produces a spoon and sticks it into the cup of sugar with a wink.

"I think I've been trying to run from something," Jean-Paul says quietly, pouring a spoonful of sugar into his cup and then pausing, unsure if he should continue either speaking or adding to the coffee. The _clink_ of the spoon on the inside of the mug is almost melodic—not that he has much of an ear for such things. "Before I came here, I was part of... something evil."

Father Myriel settles in his chair with a thoughtful hum. There's a somberness to his eyes now, a quiet sorrow in the set of his mouth. "You'd be hard-pressed to find a soul in this city who can't say the same, son," he says gently. "I think most of us are trying to run towards something better—and that's the part that matters. Maybe I'm just an old optimist, but something tells me you're running towards something better too."

 

**Author's Note:**

> So! Now that you've made it all the way down here, a couple notes:
> 
> Note the first - Huge thanks, always and forever, to my good good friend and beta KathrynShadow, who has spent the last week letting me wail on her shoulder about all of my emotions re: Jean-Paul Valley. Ily. <3
> 
> Note the second - Title taken from the poem _Carrion Comfort_ by Gerard Manley Hopkins—which, it should come as no surprise, is also the poem excerpted therein. Am I writing a ton of Jean-Paul fic just to make people read my favorite poems? MAYBE SO.GIF 
> 
> Note the third - My intent here is to fill in what I see as a few gaps in how Jean-Paul's story played out in post-reboot continuity. (This was originally going to be a oneshot! Just a nice simple character study! It has already gotten away from me AND IT'S ABOUT TO GET WORSE SOMEONE SAVE ME.) Translation: I'm going to pick apart bits of both pre- and post-Flashpoint canon, cannibalize them for scraps, and Frankenstein them with my own thoughts and headcanons until I get the story I like, and everyone else can come along for the ride. I will likely not be futzing much with things that happened in Detective Comics (2016) because the things that happened in Detective Comics (2016) were, frankly, not nearly gay enough for my gay tastes and I'm here to gay it all the hell up in here. It may take a while to get there, mind, but I promise, the gay is coming.
> 
> Note the fourth - As always, I welcome comments both here and on my Tumblr, @ gayazrael!


End file.
